Alone Together Again
by ananana
Summary: Alone together again, Draco realises just how far apart he and Harry seem to be, but maybe they're much closer than they ever realised. Rated M for Language


I don't own Harry Potter: that's all JK. Kudos to her!! XD

* * *

They are alone together again, the two of them, silent in the darkness. Such a small space really, separating them, a foot, maybe less. Nothing at all.

And yet so much.

In a world full of vast distances, a foot should be considered a mere drop in the ocean, but at this moment it is more like an insurmountable obstacle.

Draco yearns to reach across the chasm and touch his lover; he wants the other to know that he's there, that he still loves him… will always love him. That he'll never leave. But he doesn't know how, and instead he lies in silence, listening. The sound of Harry's breathing is ragged and harsh in the night, making him think of the distinctive lack of sobs. What's worse though, is the sense that the sobs are there, just waiting for the right moment to escape.

It's almost as though the Gryffindor doesn't want to cry in front of him.

A sharp inhale as the thought hits him; though the ache to touch Harry remains, it is suddenly suffused by a blindingly white-hot pain. Turning away, the blonde curls up, bringing his knees to his chest and embracing them desperately.

He wants Harry to cry in front of him.

It's illogical and foolish. His father would've spat out the word 'sentimental' with a cold sneer, and it is and it makes him angry too, because before this he's never been like that. He's always been in control and cool and logical.

But if he is honest, he wants Harry to trust Draco and to love him, because no joke, this whole unrequited love thing really sucks. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad if he hadn't played with fire a million times before, but he's getting burnt now, and badly; it's just sex to the brunette and though Draco wants desperately to deny that, he hasn't got the power.

That's Harry's and it's not likely to be used anytime soon.

_I love you._

Pale pink lips shape the words silently, and slim limbs begin to shake in the moonlight as the full force of it hits him.

He loves Harry-fucking-Potter.

With a gasp, Draco tears himself away from the bed and Harry. He can't be here, can't bear to do this, to keep pretending when Harry is so close and yet so far and he knows this is nothing to the other man. He flings himself at the door, and with tears rolling down his face now, he yanks it open, hurling his half-clad body into the night. Dimly he hears Harry behind him, calling out, voice… what? Concerned? Angry?

With a curse Draco wipes a hasty hand over his face, fighting a futile battle against the tears. What does he care what Harry's voice sounds like?

And even as he's pushing through the long grass, struggling to see the world that swims before his eyes, Draco wants to die. But a small part of him – probably the cold, proud, haughty Malfoy he doesn't seem to be anymore – wants to turn around and scream at his lover.

For making Draco Malfoy – who never feels anything for anyone or anything – cry like a lost child. For making the Slytherin's slim pale body arch and sweat as he screams and moans and sobs with pleasure. For gently touching Draco, worshipping him with golden hands, making him feel treasured.

For making Draco fall in love with him.

But worse, far, far worse than any of these things.

For not falling in love with Draco in return.

These are all the reasons the blonde wants to turn around and confront the other. Scream, shout, rage. But all he can do is try to escape this, struggle to understand this. Cry, flee, shatter.

Keen ears can still detect the brunette crashing through the underbrush behind him, and all of a sudden, Draco collapses.

Draco will never be able to answer when someone asks him why he doesn't get up again. Maybe it's too peaceful. Instead, he lies there in the cold, wet grass and looks up at the sky above him, early morning grey streaking through the dark, star-dotted night sky. Air leaving his lungs comes out cloudy and misty from the cold: it makes him feel as though his soul is leaving his body. But then, if he has no soul, why does it hurt so much?

The tears are drying on his face when Harry finds him, lying still and pale on the ground, eyes shut and body relaxed.

For a moment The-Boy-Who-Lived thinks that that body lying quietly on the cold earth is bereft of life, and for that brief second, he wishes that he were dead.

Knees collapses and Quidditch-calloused hands slip underneath the blonde head, moving it into his lap, running tender fingers through strands of silk. Draco's name escapes his lips on a quiet murmur and it as though a dam has suddenly overflowed. Unable to help himself, the brunette bends to press a kiss to the smooth forehead, talking to his lover. Though the other doesn't respond, Harry is helpless to stop himself and the words spill forth.

Words of love and tenderness and apology. How he doesn't want to hurt Draco, never wanted to hurt Draco. How even though the Slytherin doesn't love him, Harry will love him for the rest of his life, and he's sorry, so _goddamn sorry_ that he fucked up, that he always ruins everything. That watching the other run away from him crying breaks his heart and he hates himself, wants to hurt himself for ever making Draco cry.

That he wants to protect Draco and not burden him and do what's right, but somehow he doesn't know what is right anymore.

Eventually the words dry up.

It is a beautiful day, crisp and clean and bright. The sun shines down merrily on the two young men by the gurgling river and two songbirds call soulfully back and forth.

Draco finally, _finally_ opens his eyes.

Kisses Harry.

Says four words.

The brunette laughs joyfully and pulls the blonde on top of him and they kiss again, rolling happily back and forth in this sun-drenched scene, all worries and cares forgotten for these brief few moments.

Such a little thing to give, such difficult words to say.

_I love you too._

_fin_


End file.
